


under the hawthorn tree; the lovers' grave

by Reavv



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Femdom, Future tags:, Intrigue, Multi, Mystery, OC insert, Pre-Canon, Submissive Iron Bull, Switch Iron Bull, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: There’s a woman in town. There are many women, in many towns, but this particular town and woman is interesting, not just to Hissrad, but to his superiors. She’s connected to a local gang, who is connected to a larger thieves guild, who in turn, have had dealings with the Fog Warriors in Seheron. Chasing the thread all the way back into Ferelden has given them little in the way of actual information, but if they really want to cut the problem off at the head, they need to chase it further.So. There’s a woman in town.
Relationships: The Iron Bull (Dragon Age)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha. Ok so: this was supposed to be a small smut snippet of the Iron Bull getting wrecked, but then I had to insert plot into so we're 5k words in and no smut has happened. 
> 
> Is Miriam a self insert? does she know what bull is? is she going to murder a dude? 
> 
> At least one of those is a yes
> 
> (Also I have no clue if this is going to end up hitting canon yet, and so there's no real "end game" relationship set just yet. Miriam and Bull aren't going to be really....romantic at all, So keep that in mind.) 
> 
> want to talk fanfic with me? Hit me up [ here](https://discord.gg/cun3KPZ)

There’s a woman in town. There are many women, in many towns, but this particular town and woman is interesting, not just to Hissrad, but to his superiors. She’s connected to a local gang, who is connected to a larger thieves guild, who in turn, have had dealings with the Fog Warriors in Seheron. Chasing the thread all the way back into Ferelden has given them little in the way of actual information, but if they really want to cut the problem off at the head, they need to chase it further.

So. There’s a woman in town.

She works at the local pub. Not as the barkeep, or a barmaid, or even as a bard. She’s tucked into a small side room, reading ledgers and balancing books night after night, and orchestrating a meeting requires a bit of finesse. He’s got his Chargers, of course, and usually he’s a deft hand at meeting women in taverns. But she doesn’t look up even once when things get rowdy, and walking into the small room she works in would be too blatant.

He’s not here to be blatant.

Well, that’s a bit of a stretch of the truth, either way. Hard not to be blatant, being who he is, and it’s useful in of itself to be seen as blatantly shameless as he is. So he buys two ales and waits for a good moment when the room isn’t watching to saunter to her open door.

“If you’re looking for tax help, you’ll have to wait with the rest of them,” she says without looking up. He settles a grin on his face and tucks that away in the back of his mind—other people have tried to bribe her, then.

“Not taxes, no,” he replies, setting the ale at her side. “Just thought you looked a bit lonely, here by yourself.”

The woman glances up finally, peering up at him like a woman twice her age. She’s handsome enough, he thinks, although he’s not known for his pickiness in either case. Everyone has something he can find beautiful, if he looks hard enough. In this case, she has a head of dark curls tucked neatly into a cap, a graceful collarbone just teasing at the edge of her blouse, and piercing eyes that glint yellow in the firelight. Her hands are ink stained and calloused, a little dry in the weather. There’s bruises under her eyes and the hint of wrinkles being born premature on her face. She sits slouched ungracefully in her seat, looking half-drunk already, although Hissrad hasn’t seen her drink yet in the days they’ve been here.

“The Iron Bull,” he introduces, when she continues to stare up at him in question. “Do you mind?”

He nods to the seat across the table from her.

She blinks slow, as if not quite hearing him.

“Miriam Hawthorn, The Tax Woman,” she replies. “Go ahead.”

He takes the seat and settles in, leaning just a bit too close to be appropriate. She doesn’t seem to care much about propriety, however, despite being an unmarried woman in a small town. By the time he’s sat, her eyes are already back on her books.

“I wasn’t aware that Fereldens were so worried about taxes,” he says after a moment, watching her work.

“They aren’t. But this town is technically a fief under Lord Vanis, and Lord Vanis cares quite a bit about what he thinks he is owed—If I do not tally said debt, he’ll send one of his men, who tend to have a rather loose definition of mathematics. They always end up forcing people to pay more, strangely.”

He hums in thought. The fief system of Ferelden always struck him as inconsistent and wasteful, but it’s interesting to see how the towns themselves adapt to it. He doubts this was a position she’d fallen into on a whim.

“Strange indeed,” he says, with a touch of something wry in his voice, mirroring her own dry speaking.

She glances up again, settling her gaze on him calmly.

“Lord Vanis has seen to the wisdom of having a local tax collector, since in turn his men have an unfortunate habit of getting terribly lost in these parts. Terrible luck. Prone to accidents.”

He raises a brow and watches her fingers nimbly tease out a few more lines of numbers. That lines up with what they know of the area—a high number of mysterious disappearances and deaths, and an uncommonly well-to-do town with neither a major trade route or industry.

So not just a local gang, is it, if it reaches all the way to the fief lord.

It’s not often that he’s been threatened so calmly, either. Her voice is still as dry and calm as a drought, and if it weren’t for his well honed instincts, he wouldn’t have understood it to be a threat in the first place.

So there is a woman in town. She works at the local tavern, although as neither a barkeep, barmaid, or bard. Her hands are stained with ink, or maybe it is blood. She tallies up an endless amount of grain and wheat, to partition out the crops the fief lord is owed.

He doesn’t get much else out of her that first night, but they have time.

He comes back the next, and the night after that. The Chargers are waiting on a reply to a job up north anyways, so he doesn’t mind the slow start. There’s been rumblings in the market about a Conclave between the mages and Templars somewhere snowy, and he feels lucky enough that so far home hasn’t deemed it necessary to check out.

No doubt there will be another Hissrad set to tease out that particular thread while he drinks mediocre ale in a small room with a small, dry wit woman.

“You must be bored to tears, waiting in this small town,” she says one night. The book she is balancing is thick tonight, lines of ink smudging in the dim light. The local blacksmith handed it to her—Hissrad notes the particularly large number of orders for bladed weapons.

“The company is not so bad,” he replies, grinning with genuine humour. He’s good at being genuine, even if usually he does better with the more spirited of marks. He knows passion well, but this quiet, unassuming courtship is interesting too.

She doesn’t flush or stutter at his flattery, simply raises a brow and lets her eyes settle on the slope of his neck in thought. A new one, that. He is used to having his horns or arms glanced over, keeps his chest open for the salacious glances it is owed. Not many consider his neck, in rivalry with all his other... assets.

The fourth night he takes one of the farmer boys to bed, lets her see him flirt with the baker’s wife good naturedly. Her eyes never lose their placid calm, he can detect no jealousy or envy in her slash of a mouth.

“Running out of luck?” Krem needles him the next morning, when he leaves the tavern once again empty handed.

“Some battles require a certain touch of patience,” he replies with a grin, ignoring the ribbing from the others as they laugh.

They’ve become comfortable in this small town, known to the locals and free as they are with their purses. Even Skinner has lost some of that edge, as they wile the days away. On the surface the town is quiet, friendly. Quick to welcome in strangers and share a meal.

The sixth night Hissrad finally catches a glimpse of something more.

“The math doesn’t lie,” Hawthorn says to the shivering man across her desk with neither pity nor malice. “I’ve warned you before that you’re falling into the red here, Edwun.”

“It’s just a few sacks here and there, Miriam. Can we not let it go?” the man whines, looking pleadingly at her as she ignores him to take out a small box.

Hissrad pauses at the door, tucking himself into the frame and settling in to watch. Her eyes don’t even flicker.

Her hands are deft and unhurried as she takes out a new vial of ink and a fresh quill, this one fletched with gold at the tips and a creamy white throughout. The ink itself is a deep red, pigmented with something he rather hopes isn’t blood. She hasn’t given him signs of being a maleficar yet, but he’s been wrong before.

“It’s a few sacks here and there for three years, Edwun. If you had a family to feed, I might have been more lenient. But you are using those sacks to bet away your inheritance and buy whores—oh, do not try and lie to me, I do the books for the brothel as well. It shouldn’t shame you to desire a little company, but if you cannot pay for it you should not think the madame’s to keep your secrets.”

The man sputters, an ugly flush rising to his skin.

“You own hunting dogs, yes? A breeding pair of your best stock will pay for this year’s deficit, but I cannot keep letting you accrue interest like this. Unless you enjoy being wracked over the coals, year after year?” She writes out a quick contract on a fresh page and sets it aside to dry, lighting a signet candle as she finally glances up to pin the man with a firm look.

He continues to attempt to wiggle out of it, but by the time the wax is cooled on the bottom of the page, he has quite exhausted himself. Hawthorn doesn’t even argue with him, just watches him with sharp eyes until he quiets.

Edwun signs the contract with unshed tears in his eyes and hunches past Hissrad as he escapes.

“I wasn’t aware there even was a whorehouse in town,” Hissrad settles on saying as he pushes into the room. Hawthorn doesn’t startle, confirming that she knew he was there the whole time.

“It’s a quiet little establishment—we are not so big or so blessed by trade that would necessitate much of that sort of entertainment. If you wish I can introduce you to the madame,” her words would be teasing on any other lips, but on hers it just comes out as a statement of fact.

He is once again hit by just how washed out the woman feels. A flat, sterile human. Tranquil, if that word hadn’t lost all it’s meaning with the Chantry’s overreach.

“Stuff like that happen often?” he asks instead.

“More often than I would like with some,” she replies, tucking away the white quill and red ink back into its box. He’s able to catch a better glimpse of the vial as she does—and there, pressed into the label, a stag head.

Confirmation that she’s connected to the gang, as much as he was already pretty sure of that just from the reports and her standing in town.

She waits for him to settle across the table before finally cracking a smile—the first he’s seen on her yet.

“I can’t imagine that debts and bookkeeping is of much interest to you, but perhaps we might help each other out. I’ve heard that your Chargers are still looking for work?”

“We are,” he replies, curiosity eating at his caution. If she has a job for them, they might actually be able to get some intel out of the town.

“There’s a particularly odious noble that Edwun has been borrowing money from in the city. He’s connected to Lord Vanis, and enjoys some freedom from the less than legal businesses he practices out of his father’s estate. Edwun has been struggling to pay this noble back for much longer than his debt would rightfully warrant.”

“We’re not assassins,” Hissrad points out, blurring the truth a little. The Chargers might not be assassins, but Hissrad himself has dabbled when the situation has called for it.

“I do not need assassins, luckily. I will be traveling to the city in a few days, to bring in the yearly tithe. While there, I would like to call upon this debtor and come upon an agreement—having protection and a deterrent for any underhanded business dealings would help me greatly.”

So, bodyguard duty. Definitely more in line with the Charger’s skillset. And if they’re meant to be protecting her during the travel to the city, it will mean close quarters.

It’s always a fine line when trying to seduce a client, but Hissrad makes do.

—

“Seems like a simple enough job,” Krem points out once they’ve gathered their supplies and men. Hawthorn is leading a beautiful geldling into the courtyard, while around them townsfolk pack away the harvest.

“Simple ones always go wrong in the worst ways,” Stitches replies with a sigh. “Remember that bandit job a couple months back?”

“That one was only a simple job on the surface—it’s not like we knew the bandits were working with the client at the offset,” Krem argues.

“What about that giant spider job last year?” Rocky interrupts. “That was simple.”

“That was only simple because you exploded the cave and brought the roof down on all of them, and us,” Skinner snaps.

“Efficient use of resources,” Rocky waves off.

“You still sulking?” Krem asks as the others devolve into bickering.

“Sulking? Me?” Hissrad laughs. “Why would I? We have a job now, don’t we?”

“From the woman you’ve been trying to get into bed,” Krem replies with a grin. “And yet I can’t help but notice she’s still ignoring you. She must have better taste then the rest.”

“Excuse you,” Hissrad snorts. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Maybe tell her that,” Krem teases, nodding to where Hawthorn is talking with the town mayor. There’s a book the both of them are referring to as they count the crates and bags going onto the cart.

“She’s not really your type, is she?” he continues, quieter.

“Everyone is my type,” Hissrad replies.

“Sure.” Krem just shakes his head, before wandering off to pull Skinner off of a choking Rocky.

Hissrad watches, and waits.

The carts are filled, the horses saddled. The townsfolk all say cheery goodbyes, and on the road they ride. The trip will take four days of travel, burdened down as they are by the heavy carts. In that time he’s going to have to find an angle he can use.

If it’s not seduction, it will be something else. Eventually he’ll get the answer he is looking for. Eventually he will learn the cues of the woman, will tease out her secrets, find the conspiracy. Follow the hoof prints of the stag head.

“What can you tell me of this debtor,” Hissrad asks as they ride, urging his beast to walk besides hers.

“Lord Osmun,” Hawthorn explains. “His family has made their fortune off of imports, but after his father’s death a few years ago, their business has struggled to gain the profits they once had. I hear Lord Osmun has turned to preying on the villages who struggled to meet Lord Vanis’ steep tax demands.”

“They working together?” he asks, following the thread.

“Most likely, yes.”

“Will that be an issue, you think?” he wonders. “Can’t see Lord Vanis being happy if you try and shove his buddy around.”

“Not an issue, no. The two are not close—Lord Vanis is not kind even to those of his cohort. And Lord Osmun is prideful enough he won’t ask for aid in this matter,” she replies thoughtfully.

“Any weaknesses?”

She cocks her head in thought, glancing over.

“A weakness for a particular prostitute that his wife is unaware of, and probably more backdoor business dealing with the local guilds than is healthy for him,” she says after a moment.

“So Edwun and our Lord Osmun have something in common,” he snorts, and she cracks another grin at that.

“I imagine Edwun saw something of a kindred soul in him, before the fangs were uncovered. Lord Osmun likes drinking with the locals whenever he travels, and he was in town around the time Edwun started accruing debt.”

“Why are you interested in him, anyways?” he wonders. “Doesn’t seem like you’re friends—why save him?”

Hawthorn hums, stretching in the saddle.

“It’s bad business to let a leech like that get a hook in town. I’ve worked hard to make sure that the townsfolk are free from the wolves that might bay at our doors.”

“Good thing I’m not a wolf, huh,” he teases, preening as her eyes land on him once again.

“Not a wolf, no,” she agrees, not looking away. “A stag, perhaps, with those antlers.”

His eyes flicker to hers, and she flashes another sharp slash of a smile before urging her geldling back up to the front of the train.

—

So the woman knows something, obviously. The question is, how much does she know?

They make camp for the night, and he settles at the fire at her side with an exaggerated huff. The weather is starting to turn, and his knee is complaining about the amount of riding they’ve been doing lately.

“Cold night,” Hawthorn says, offering a mug of what smells like spiced wine.

“Cold year,” he replies, accepting. A quick sniff teases out notes of nutmeg and cinnamon, the sweetness of the wine balanced out with what he thinks has to be dried orange peel. Expensive, that.

“We’re in for a couple of cold winters,” Hawthorn says, staring at the fire. “The yield has been diminishing for a while—and droughts always herald storms.”

“Haven’t heard that saying before.”

“It’s an old farmer’s wisdom,” she answers, turning to face him a little more directly. “My brother used to like to say it was true for more than just the weather—that years of lack would always herald years of upheaval. I like to think we are seeing it now, with the mages.”

“That’s a little bit more than just a bit of upheaval, isn’t it?” he asks, brow raised.

“Is it?” she retorts, raising her own brow. “You must have seen similar events in your work—it is quite similar to our situation now, in fact. You have a heavy-handed noble bleeding their people dry, until eventually the blood drowns them out, and a new noble replaces them. It was rather inevitable that the mages would rebel eventually.”

He lets that comment settle between them.

She’s sharp, opinionated. Cynical, just a bit, but he doesn’t get a sense of despair from her either.

“Where is your brother now?” he asks, instead of seeing just how deep that rabbit whole goes.

“Dead,” she replies without inflection. “He was taken by Templars when I was eight—they told us he tried to run on the way to the circle and had to be cut down.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he offers. “He sounded wise.”

She smiles.

“Wise enough to run, not smart enough to have done it while they were sleeping.”

A pause.

“I like to imagine he’s laughing at us all now.”

He toasts to that, watching the way her eyes flash in the firelight, that birdlike gaze piercing him even as she settles in closer, sharing heat.

It is perhaps just one chink in the armour, but it is something.

—

So. A dead mage brother, a family of farmers. How does that lead to bookkeeping and crime? She doesn’t act like a farmer’s daughter, or even as a peasant at all. She’s obviously been given some sort of education, but previous gossip with the townsfolk reveals no formal schooling in the area.

The next couple of days he tries to follow the twisting spiral of her words to uncover more. Off-handed remarks show a surprisingly firm grasp of Orlesian, and at least a smattering of Tevene. A humorous tale shared with Krem reveals a mother with roots in Rivain. A rusted lock on one of the tithe chests showcases a nonchalant skill with lockpicks, attributed to a rambunctious youth.

As much as she seems like a reticent mark, Hissrad soon realises that she doesn’t try to hide much. She lets him see her correspondence as she works at night, is immodest enough when they stop to refill their canteen to roll up her pant legs and wade into the river to dunk her head, showing the sliver of an antler peeking through a wet blouse.

It feels like bait, but one he is not sure the purpose of.

It is what makes him discard the slow seduction the both of them are dancing around and ask her directly. At this point, he doesn’t even think sleeping with her will uncover much more, but he’s interested enough to make the attempt and see.

“I don’t sleep with employees,” she says, glancing up at him as he leans up against the tent opening. “Bad dynamic.”

“I won’t be your employee for long,” he points out, keeping his words light and flirty.

“But you are, right now,” she returns, raising a brow.

He has to work a little harder at his morning training after that, something simmering in his blood.

Rejection is meaningless to him. He doesn’t put that much stock into his bedmates—it doesn’t hurt his ego to have someone say no to him. But it is not a lack of interest on her part, he is sure, and it is not a sense of propriety or modesty that stops her either. At least if he could tumble her into bed he could feel like he’s regained some manner of control over her.

He feels a lot better when they get attacked by bandits on the last day of travel and he can bash some heads in.

—

Hissrad is flirting with one of the stall owners as Hawthorn haggles with the well-dressed steward of Lord Vanis. As far as he can tell, it requires a lot of paper shuffling, and comments about decade old treatise. At some point the steward says something disparaging about her lineage, and Hawthorn retorts with a seemingly innocent question about the man’s health.

“Embarrassing rash?” he asks lowly once she rejoins the group.

“Lover’s pox,” she agrees with a tight smile, before her eyes flicker to the stall he’s leaning up against. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of The Iron Bull, Nissa.”

The stall owner titters a little.

“Oh, Miriam, you should have told me you knew such a—fine specimen,” she gasps out, covering her mouth with a blush. Hissrad flexes, to the laugh of the crowd around them.

“It’s new,” Hawthorn replies wryly, before saying her polite goodbyes and moving along. The Chargers follow, of course, well used to being the bladed escort of stubborn nobles. Hissrad himself keeps pace as the others spread out, keeping an eye on the crowd for trouble.

“Is that what does it for you then?” she asks, glancing up at him.

“What? Redheads? Sure, they tend to be real firecrackers underneath it all.”

She huffs a quiet laugh.

“No, the specimen comment. The whole—” She waves her hands at the bulk of him. “—large brute with only one head act.”

“Sure,” he replies with a blink. “It’s why my name is _The_ Iron Bull. Makes me a thing, a force of nature.”

She hums quietly, and he thinks that’s the end of it for a moment.

“I suppose pretending to be out of control gives the illusion of control itself. Instincts and lapses can just be written off as part of the act. Quite the tightrope to balance on.” Her voice is as non-committal as usual, as if she’s remarking on the weather or the price of fish.

He licks the back of his teeth and doesn’t quite know how to answer that.

“We’re here,” she says before he can, nodding to an ostentatious gate. “Lord Osmun’s estate.”

He eyes the building and can practically taste the unimpressed judgement in her voice. He can’t quite disagree—it’s in particular poor taste, considering the state of the rest of the city surrounding it.

“How do you want us, boss?” he asks, gesturing the rest of the Chargers back over.

“You, me, and one other, I think. That’s as much as we can get away with without being too blatant. They should keep an eye out from the outside, to make sure he doesn’t call reinforcements—he has a contract with the local guard captain.”

“Right,” he calculates the size of the estate quickly and starts organising the Chargers. Krem will be their third here, of course, and they have enough to otherwise keep an eye on the road and the doors.

Hawthorn waits for them to spread out before turning back to the gates.

“If you would?” she asks, bowing him forward.

“My pleasure,” he replies with a grin, unlatching his axe.

The gate crumbles quite satisfyingly.

—

He’ll remember the expression on the Lord’s face when they burst in for years to come, he’s pretty sure, the valet and butler who’d attempted to stop them trailing frantically in their wake.

“What is the meaning of this!” Osmun blusters, startling from his seat. It looks like they’ve interrupted breakfast; a spread of thick sausages, clotted cream with fruit, pastries, and poached eggs all laid out before him. It’s enough food to feed four, but he’s the only one sitting at the table.

“Erik—I can call you Erik, yes?—Erik, we really need to have a talk about your bookkeeping,” Hawthorn tuts, striding into the room to collapse on the chair across from him. Her whole demeanor is changed now, and Hissrad nods to Krem to run interference with the servants before he steps up behind her, using his height to loom.

The noble freezes, registering for the first time their size difference, and the brandished axe at his side.

“Oh do sit down,” she drawls with a wave. “You would think I’m here to kill you. I don’t have any reason to do that, now do I, Erik?”

“Does your nerve know no bounds?” Osmun snaps. “My men will have already called the guard—you will not get away with this.”

“Get away with what? I’m just visiting a friend,” Hawthorn laughs. “Terrible luck about that gate, though. Shoddy metalwork to break suddenly like that, right?.”

“Terrible craftsmanship,” Hissrad agrees, resting his axe on the table to glint in the candle light.

“Why—You—” Osmun sputters.

“A little quicker now, Erik,” Hawthorn orders, grabbing one of the pastries to point at him with. “We have so much to talk about.”

“Who do you even think you are?” he spits, slowly sitting back in his seat as Hissrad leans harder on his axe, until it’s starting to cut into the wood of the table itself.

“Call me an interested party. I’ve heard you have a small little business lending out loans, and well, I had to come to check it out,” she replies, biting into the pastry. “Businesswoman to businessman, as it were.”

“You are after money then? Fine! But do not think that you will get away with robbing me in broad daylight like this.”

Hawthorn shakes her head pityingly before looking up at Hissrad in faux offense.

“Robbers, he calls us! Our dear friend certainly has such little imagination.”

“Not a surprise, considering what else is small,” Hissrad continues, nodding to his crotch. “No wonder he has to pay for it.”

Osmun’s face goes white and then puce.

“Truly a pity. It's not a surprise his wife is still without heirs,” she sighs, looking regretful. “And she might never have any, either, if he continues as he is.”

“Are you threatening me?” Osmun cries, slamming his hands on the table, one corner of his mustache twitching in rage.

“Not the sharpest blade in the bunch, is he?” And that’s Krem, joining in. “We come in swords drawn and he only now registers that we’re threatening him.”

“Some people just don’t understand why they get burned touching fire,” Hawthorn bemoans, before growing still and leaning forward to address the man directly.

“Let me be frank, Erik. You have been encroaching on territory that doesn’t belong to you for too long. I have been merciful up to now, only sending your mens’ hands back in boxes, instead of their heads. But even I have a limit for mercy, and you are rapidly finding it.”

“This is about the loans? They are unimportant peasants—whores and criminals! You should be thanking me for giving them a chance to rise above their station. If you want a cut, just say so—I can give you fifteen today.” And he truly is a rat, isn’t he. Hissrad can smell the nervous sweat from here, can see the way his eyes are dilated in fear.

“Oh don’t make me laugh, Erik. Fifteen? Really? You must think me a simpleton.” She shakes her head, even as she flicks her eyes towards Hissrad and nods in his direction.

He straightens and grabs his axe again, stepping away from her side to walk towards the puffed up noble.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hawthorn says pleasantly as Hissrad kicks the chair away from the table, causing Osmun to shoot up and shrink back. He stomps on the seat of the chair between Osmun’s legs, perilously close to a very sensitive area, and forces him to look her way with the flat of his weapon.

“You are going to retrieve the contracts you’ve forced your clients to sign. You are going to burn them in that fireplace there, while I watch. And then you are going to swear to never give out another loan, on pain of castration, for as long as you live. Understood?”

Hissrad can feel the noble swallow, the way the whites of his eyes are fever bright, and gives him just enough slack to nod.

“Good,” Hawthorn chirps, smile sharp, although perhaps not as sharp as her eyes.

Things move quite quickly after that.

—

“What have you gotten us into, chief?” Krem asks in an undertone as they watch the butler bow them out.

“...I’m not sure,” he admits, lips pursed. The puzzle pieces aren’t quite lining up. From all reports they’ve received, Hawthorn is supposed to be a low-end link in the chain. That wasn’t the action of a pion, however.

He thinks he’s going to have to investigate the thieves guild in town.

“Ready to go? I sent for rooms at a local tavern,” Hawthorn says after turning away from her final threats to the estate’s servants.

“Lead the way, boss,” Hissrad nods with a grin, ignoring Krem’s raised brow.

At least they won’t be bored for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’ll return in the morning, so you have the night free if you want,” Hawthorn says when they get back to the tavern. It’s a quiet establishment, filled with tired looking workers and a worn weary barkeep.

“You hired us for the full trip,” Hissrad points out. “There’s still a chance Osmun will try and retaliate.”

She leans back in the tavern chair to peer up at him.

“Feel free to stick around if you want, but I’ll just be resting in the room—I doubt he’ll find this place even if he had the nerve to try something. I change taverns every time I have to stay the night in the city.”

“No point trying to change his mind,” Krem points out, walking past. “The chief is a professional—he’s sticking with you until the job is over.”

She stares at the both of them for a moment before shrugging.

“Your funeral, it’s going to be a bore, however.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to entertain ourselves,” Hissrad chuckles with a wink. Well, a blink really.

“I’m sure,” Hawthorn repeats, voice dry.

Someone eventually breaks out the cards, and another round of ale is called for the table as the Chargers settle in for the night. Hawthorn doesn’t move from her spot in the middle of the pack, even as she waves the cards and ale away, opening a small leather book instead and comfortably ignoring them all.

“So what do you do for fun when you’re not threatening nobles?” Krem asks curiously, looking at her over his hand of cards.

Hissrad continues the story he’s telling the tired farmer at the next table over, but turns his body so he can keep an eye on them. He’s interested to see if she reacts better to someone that’s not him—and Krem is handsome enough to turn his own share of heads.

“I don’t have time for a lot of amusements,” she replies, flipping the pages in the book. “But I do enjoy bird catching. There is a particularly fierce hawk that comes to roost in trees behind my house that I have an eye on.”

“You a falconer then?”

A pause as she glances up for a moment towards Hissrad.

“Not exactly. It’s more about the catching, not the keeping for me. I don’t believe in caged birds, but if they stay around for a little while, then I make it worth it for them.”

He catches her eye for a second before she turns her attention once more towards Krem.

“But if you’re thinking of social amusements, I do not have much to tell you. For good reason, the townsfolk don’t particularly want to become friendly with their tax collector,” she tells him, tapping the page with the end of one nail.

“Why not? We like you!” Dalish cries on her other side, already halfway buzzed. Hawthorn cracks a smile at that.

“Thank you, but you are not the ones that I must separate from livelihoods—there are those that do not believe that the serf tax should exist at all,” she says with a bit of a wry twist. “Especially when the fief lord so poorly manages the lands around us.”

“Why do they stay, then?” Krem asks, nodding to Rocky to deal him in again.

“Tradition, mostly. Their families have been working these lands for generations. There are as well those who attempt to fight back against the lords—either by banding together to be strong enough to represent themselves to the house of lords, or by refusing to send their tithe entirely,” she muses.

“Sounds dangerous,” Hissrad pipes in, turning fully back to the group as the table next to them clears off.

“It can be,” she agrees. “But people will do as they think best, if they feel they are owed more.”

“The drought before the storm?” he needles.

A knife slip of a smile.

“Yes.”

—

The night passes quietly. The Chargers bunk up three to a room, and by agreement leave Hissrad to share with the client, under the excuse that she needs someone to guard her in the night, and that The Iron Bull is big enough to count as two people anyways.

Hawthorn doesn’t argue, or look worried about spending the night in Hissrad’s company, so he doesn’t try and stop them from their matchmaking.

As he has come to expect, she doesn’t make any moves as they get ready for bed, and besides a few amused glances when he turns the flirt on, she doesn’t react much to his presence at all.

He waits until she’s asleep—fully submerged in dreaming, not even a twitch when he softly whistles—to carefully riffle through her side bags.

He’s looking for anything of interest, anything to hint at what the White Stags and the thieves guild is after, but his hands find the leather book from earlier and instinct takes over. At this point he’s gotten used to her penmanship, and could tell at a glance that whatever was written in the book was not written by Hawthorn herself.

It might simply be another ledger, or, less likely, a novel for leisure. And yet, he’s not surprised when he opens it to find it fully in code.

_...and under the hawthorn tree, where the lovers’ grave rests, where the hunting dogs bay and the rats feast, I saw you there._

Poetry, on the surface.

He flips a few more pages, but the book doesn’t even pretend to be real.

_And I saw you there, the lovers’ feast where the rats, hunting, rests. The tree, the dogs, and the bay, under the hawthorn…_

Page after page, the same words repeated in different sequences—sometimes making a vague sense, but more often than not falling into gibberish. He frowns as he starts puzzling it out. It’s not a cypher he knows, but it also does not go out of it’s way to pretend to be clever—it does not hide.

The key, he is sure, has to do with the pattern of the word sequence. Some combinations repeat more often—“under the hawthorn tree”, “lovers’ grave”, and “I saw you there”. Logically he would assume that the first is a reference to Hawthorn herself, with the grave being a location. The rats and dogs could describe another group or person, while the feast hints at a time.

The question then, is how important is it? The book looks old, worn out. If the code is hinting at a meeting at a specific time and place, the chances of it still being relevant are small. But then, why would Hawthorn keep it around? Sentiment?

He memorises a couple patterns of the phrase and returns the book to where he found it, placing the miscellaneous notes and calculations in the order she’d left them.

He steps lightly back to his side of the room and slowly eases himself back down onto the bed, paying care to not let the old frame creek too loudly. He wonders for a moment if the book is an obvious bait—she’d taken it out in full view of the tavern, after having already dropped hints about her involvement with the White Stags. Quite possibly she wanted him to find it to distract from something else.

He lets thoughts peeling back layers and layers of mysteries like old paint lull him into sleep, the gentle sway of the night fading slipping into nothingness.

If he dreams, he does not remember it.

—

The next morning they leave to return to the town, but not before Hawthorn buys the Chargers each a small, fragrant meat pie to go. The pies are good, even if Hissrad finishes his in less than two bites, but it is the faces of the others that really make him grin. It’s rare for a client to care enough about the Chargers as a group to go out of their way in such a matter.

“Missus! Missus!” a voice calls out as they’re making their way out of the city gates.

They turn back to watch a young boy, perhaps about ten years old at most, skid to halt in front of where Hissrad is blocking his path to said client. He doesn’t think Osmun would stoop to child assassins, but desperate men make desperate mistakes.

“What’s up, scamp?” Hawthorn asks, peeking around Hissrad’s back.

“Delivery for you!” the boy says cheerfully, thrusting out a small brown package. The Chargers all shift, eyes sharp.

“Don’t worry,” Hawthorn says with a sigh, patting Hissrad’s bicep. “I was expecting this.”

Hissrad lets her push forward to accept the package just barely, hand resting casually on the hilt of his axe.

“Thanks, scamp,” she says, completely ignoring the tension in the air.

She flips the boy a coin and retreats back to the middle of the pack, nonchalant. The package goes into one of her saddlebags, and she nods to the Chargers as she starts climbing into the saddle. The others follow, and Hissrad waits until the rest of them are ready before swinging onto his mount.

“Something interesting?” he asks, pulling up alongside her.

“Not really,” Hawthorn replies. “Old records from the archives. There’s an ongoing land dispute between families—a couple generations back one side sold a parcel of land, with the understanding that one day it would be sold back. Obviously that has not happened.”

“That part of your job?” Dalish asks with surprise, twisting in her saddle a bit to glance over.

“Not technically,” Hawthorn sighs. “But it’s not like the town has a mediator to do it in my stead, and I am used to working with old documents.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of responsibilities,” Hissrad muses. “You must have a lot of sway within the town.”

“Hah. That’s one word for it, I suppose. It’s more that I’m incapable of seeing a problem and not fixing it. I’ve rightfully been called a busybody.”

Hissrad thinks on that for a moment. It wouldn’t be how he would describe the woman, honestly. She seems to have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, perhaps, but being a busybody would require being interested in others. As far as he can tell, she spends her solving problems more out of affront that they would dare be problems in the first place. Even getting rid of Edwun’s debt wasn’t done out of any sort of sympathy for the man himself.

She’s cold. Not freezing, exactly. Just tepid, a rock that cares not for the trees around it.

They’re halfway to the first campsite of the trip, guiding the horses through a more overgrown part of the road, when the explosion hits.

For a moment Hissrad is thrown back into the wet winds of Seheron, the sounds of gatlock echoing through his head like a funeral bell. But no, the explosion is not from the treeline, or attached to the cart, none of the caravan is in danger—the explosion is in the sky, a large, green disk of swirling energy that pushes the clouds away and cracks like lighting across the blue.

“ _Maker wept, what is that!_ ” Stitches cries. At his side Skinner is cursing as her mount tries to buck her clean off, and the rest are not much better off.

Even Grim has pulled back in shock, a rough _fuck_ escaping.

The next few moments are chaos, but even in the fray, the Chargers are disciplined—they know what to do with unexpected, potentially hostile, interruptions in missions.

Krem is already swinging over to take control of Hawthorn’s geldling, taking up the reins from the back of the saddle and urging them back into formation. Hissrad himself has his axe already in hand, eyes falling naturally to the trees—but they are alone, not even the birds around to be startled into the air.

“That is...the Fade,” Dalish breathes, eyes as large as Hissrad has ever seen.

“I’m assuming it’s not supposed to be doing that,” Hissrad yells back, but doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. If something is affecting the Fade in such a way that they can see it even here, he doesn’t even want to imagine what the consequences are.

“Demons!” Hawthorn screeches, as something comes whistling down from the cracked sky and crashes into the ground a step or two away from the path.

“Chargers! Horns up!” Hissrad roars. “Krem, get her to safety!”

“Aye!” they roar back, even as Krem kicks Hawthorn’s geldling into a gallop. They won’t go far—separating now, when this could be a trap to do just that, would be a last resort.

Hissrad charges straight into where a wraith is still mid-formation and curses even as the battle-fever starts creeping into his veins. Demons are his least favourite creature to fight, for good reason, and that’s not even taking into account whatever is going on with the sky.

“We have more incoming!” someone yells from behind, and Hissrad curses again but adjusts to keep the new demons in sight.

The following fight is messy, messier than he would like, and by the time the last demon is dispelled Hissrad already knows they’re going to be doing morning training for a long time to make up for it. They’ve gotten complacent, used to underfed bandits and the odd haunted tree.

“Report!” he snaps once things calm down, even as he keeps an eye out for Krem and the client.

“Superficial wounds for the most part, although I don’t like the look of Rocky’s leg,” Stitches says, looking up from his inspection of said limb.

“We lost one of the horses, and I’m not sure the cart is worth attempting to save,” Dalish offers next, and Hissrad glances over to see that sure enough, the empty cart that used to hold the town’s tithe is splintered right down the middle.

“Right, I’m sure the loss of one cart is better than some outcomes,” he replies, nodding to where Krem is steering the client’s horse back into view.

“She’s fine,” Krem replies to the unasked question. “The demons appear to spawn in clumps—didn’t see any outside of the group here.”

“They’re attracted to where the Veil is thin, and large concentrations of emotion,” Hawthorn says, hand clutched tight on the pommel of her saddle. “The explosion most likely caused an initial wave—the next won’t appear unless we’re close to an actual rift.”

“You know what this is?” Dalish asks, glancing at the sky. “I have seen nothing like this.”

Hawthorn shakes her head in a tense jerk.

“Theories only.” She falls silent for a moment, looking like a stone one hammer strike away from breaking.

“We should hurry back to town. I doubt they will have fared as well as we have,” she finally says, rubbing at her arms.

Hissrad feels something disquiet grow in his stomach.

“Areas the Veil are thin, or large concentrations of emotion, is it?” he asks, nodding. Large concentrations of emotion mean concentrations of people, and with the sky breaking apart, he’s sure any settlement is drowning in demons at the moment.

“Right, let’s move out. We’ll ride through the night.”

Agreement rings out, and he glances one last time to the shivering woman in her saddle.

For some reason, he doesn’t think her fear is necessarily for nearly dying, or for the giant hole in the sky. Her eyes are a little too steady—gilded flint staring out at them with a calculated lack of shock.

He tucks that thought neatly in the back of his mind as he mounts one of the still-nervous horses, along with all the other cracks in her story that are slowly adding up. He knows when he needs to bide his time.

They ride.

—

The town is in shambles when they finally arrive after a rushed couple days pushing the horses to their limit. Houses with broken doors, charred bits of something he doesn’t want to think about in the square, hastily erected barricades that are covered in blood and mud.

There’s a palpable sense of relief from the survivors when they see the horses riding up, and just from a glance Hissrad can see they weren’t unscathed by the ordeal. A pile of corpses is being dragged into the open, with grim-faced farmers lining them up respectfully. He can’t see the weaker members of the community—there are no crying children, silent grandparents.

Not a good sign, although he has hope that they’re just hiding somewhere safe for now.

“Fuck,” Skinner mutters, as they come to a stop in front of what Hissrad only just recognises as the barkeep.

“Oh Maker have mercy,” the man cries. “Miriam! We feared the worst.”

“I was safer on the road with the Chargers than anywhere else, Warren. How is it? What can we do?” Hawthorn replies, dismounting off of her shared mount, flashing Krem a quick nod of thanks as he helps.

“Not good, but not as bad as it could have been,” Warren replies. “We lost Johnny and Emilia, and some of the farmhands that were traveling through at the time, and a good chunk of the west of the town will have to be rebuilt. We haven’t been able to check on the farms yet, but Hores says the demons would have ignored them in favour of the people, so there’s hope yet.”

“Any rifts?” Hawthorn asks, eyes flickering past the man towards the rest of the town.

“No, not yet. We have a watch set up to catch them if they do pop up,” he replies.

Hissrad crosses his arms and glances between the two. They’re not even trying to be secretive anymore.

“So you knew this would happen,” he says flatly. “You’ve prepared for it.”

Hawthorn turns slowly to stare up at him.

“...technically, your contract with me has ended now that we’ve arrived back in town safely. If you wish, you can leave now, with my blessing. You’ve already been paid.”

Hissrad can feel the Chargers shuffling at his back, unease growing thick in the air. Warren’s eyes are flickering between them, but he is silent, even as the tension thickens.

“I think it would be best if we got some answers first,” Hissrad answers flatly. “Especially since it was my men you put in danger during this trip.”

Hawthorn nods, those dead eyes not even flinching at finding herself under the full brunt of his scrutiny. He has a good three heads over her, and yet her feet are planted like roots into the soil.

“Very well. Let me show you, then,” she says slowly, turning finally to address Warren. “Have the scouts tighten the net—our neighbours will not have fared quite as well, and no doubt we will be seeing the consequence of that soon.”

Warren nods, glancing once at Hissrad before stepping aside to watch them enter the town proper.

Silence descends as Hawthorn leads them further in, passing by the grim-eyed townsfolk. These were people the Chargers had been friendly with not even a week earlier, and yet now their passing is met with stony stares and knife-slash mouths.

They eventually stop at an unmarked door, nestled in between the town hall and a general goods store. Hawthorn gives the doorframe a knock, but doesn’t wait for an answer before opening it and walking through.

“You sure about this, chief?” Krem asks in an undertone, echoing himself from a few days previous.

“Not really,” Hissrad replies, frowning. They don’t have much of a choice though—even without all the crap of the sky breaking, he has his orders. Hawthorn knows something, and Hissrad is meant to find out what exactly that is.

He walks through, hand resting lightly on his axe. The Chargers follow, and he has to wonder, for a second, if this will finally be the moment he leads them to their deaths for real. It was bound to happen someday.

“The building technically belongs to the Hammerpoint family, but they don’t have much use for it,” Hawthorn says without turning. “It’s stood empty for decades at this point.”

“Seems like a waste of space for a town as small as this,” Hissrad points out.

“Oh, it is. But a necessary one,” she replies, stopping in front of an empty wall.

She turns back to look him in the eye as she kicks one of the boards. In a move that doesn’t even surprise him at this point, the floorboard creaks open to reveal an opening. There’s the hint of lamplight that speaks of a larger space under them.

“Well? You coming?” she asks, already lowering herself down.

Hissrad looks over at his lieutenant and waits for a nod before following.

—

The trapdoor leads to a tunnel, a little too small to be comfortable for his horns. It stretches for a good couple meters under the earth, before a sharp turn opens up into a large room, the roof of which stretches up to what has to be the cobblestone of the central courtyard.

Milling around the room are townsfolk—more than Hissrad knew to live in the town proper. Some he recognises—the blacksmith with the bad limp, the baker’s wife and her dimples, the farmer and his son who still blushes even now at seeing him—but others are strangers dressed in a mix of drab clothing, some masked, some wearing weapons.

A large mural along one wall stares down at them, the White Stag head overlooking the gathering. The hush of the room is only highlighted by two streams of water that fall on either side of the painting, falling into two pools that disappear off into the sides.

“I suppose you have questions,” she says without turning, walking further into the room as the others back away, giving space.

“Probably more than a few,” Krem snarks, but there is a wide look to his eyes that betrays him.

One of the masked figures breaks off from the pack and steps quickly towards Hawthorn only to fall into a deep bow once her attention falls on them. They reach into the folds of their cloak to offer what Hissrad can just make out as a knife.

Hawthorn takes the offered weapon and holds it loosely, as if for comfort.

“Right,” she sighs. “Let me cover the main ones. These—” She points to the gathered folk. “—are the members and families of the White Stag. We have a series of hideouts in case of emergencies.”

“The White Stag? You mean the smuggling ring,” Rocky asks from where he’s being held up by Stitches.

“Among other things, yes. Smuggling is just one way we fund the operation, however,” Hawthorn replies, tucking the dagger into her belt finally. She nods to the people around them, who at this point have slowly turned back to their business.

“And the hole in the sky?” Hissrad asks, not relaxing his stance quite yet.

“Not one of our plans, I swear,” she says, turning to address them finally with a sigh. “Come, let’s take a seat. I will attempt to explain.”

Hissrad glances at the White Stag members one last time, and debates trying to ask for privacy. He doesn’t like the idea of being in the middle of a mob waiting to happen, but he also recognises that trying to get Hawthorn alone at this point would be just as bad.

“What does the town name actually mean?” he asks as he settles down across from her on the provided boxes. The Chargers arrange themselves similarly, weapons still not fully sheathed.

“Caught that, did you?” Hawthorn flashes that knife smile again. “We made sure to not have any signage, or a spot on any map, but people still needed _something_ to call it. The Town only worked so far, so.”

“Swainmound—Lovers’ Grave,” he finishes. He’d thought it odd that the town had so little official recognition, despite being part of a fief—he only knew the name because it was part of his initial briefing.

“My mother buried my father under the hawthorn tree that used to stand in the middle of the square. Swainmound used to be just a small collection of peasant huts until she settled here—she said she didn’t want to go where my father couldn’t follow.” Her voice is quiet, but steady.

“And the White Stags?” Krem asks, glancing at Hissrad for permission even as he leans forward a little in interest.

Hissrad crosses his arms and leans back, thinking. They knew the White Stags were connected to the thieves guild, but as far as they knew, Hawthorn was just a low member in their hierarchy. But the way the townsfolk react to her, and the way she talks about the founding of the town itself says something quite different. And if she is, as it seems, the direct descendant to the founder—

“My mother was...strange. She knew no magic, and yet she had a certain knack for foresight. When the Blight swept through Ferelden, she gathered what remained of the surrounding peasants and organised them into the original White Stags. The first things they smuggled were people out of Blighted lands to safety, bypassing many of the restrictive city politics they would be confronted with otherwise. Afterwards, the group continued, harrying the bloated nobles in their towers of gold.”

She’s not lying. Hissrad has learnt enough of her now to tell. And yet she is not saying everything either, and it’s not just the no doubt more dubiously honorable actions she’s hiding. The story is a little too good at answering his questions. It fits too well with what he’s already determined—all of which he’s gathered from the woman herself, from the clues she’s so thoughtfully left behind.

He knows a cover story when he hears one.

“And you’re doing it again, but this time because of whatever just happened up there?” he waves vaguely upwards.

“Of a sorts,” she says with another flash of a smile. “My mother left behind records that suggested something big would likely be coming in the next couple years. The powder keg that is the mage-Templar war didn’t require a special sight to see coming. I am not sure what she knew, exactly, but she had a lot of theories on the Fade and the Veil.”

Convenient. And still doesn’t explain how she knew it would happen when it did, or whether Hissrad and the Chargers’ timing was just coincidence.

“We don’t know what happened exactly,” the masked White Stag from earlier offers, before turning to Hawthorn to continue. “But from the reports of the initial blast, it can be assumed that it came from the direction of the Divine’s Conclave.”

“Do we have any scouts in the area?” she asks, tugging at the end of one curl in grim thought.

“A few, but none that we’ve received reports from yet.”

“If the blast was big enough to crack the sky open, anyone close to it probably didn’t survive,” Hissrad points out, to a slow nod of agreement.

Her eyes flicker to his.

“I would like to send more scouts to figure out the extent of the damages, but considering that after days the hole is still in the sky, I am not sure it is going to close on its own. What are your plans now? You are free to go back to your regular mercenary work—I am sure the land is in enough chaos that you would have a lot of work.”

The Chargers shift.

“That’s sure to be an understatement,” Dalish offers quietly. “Chief, if we can help—You don’t know what it feels like, out there. It’s worse than the dreaming Fade.”

“Not sure a crime syndicate is thinking of helping,” Hissrad points out wryly.

“We all live under the broken sky,” Hawthorn replies just as dry.

“Whatever is going on out there is unnatural as fuck,” Skinner spits. “I don’t much care about the fat fucks in their castles, but you know who’s going to take the brunt of it out there.”

“Chaos is historically just as good for business for thieves as it is for mercenaries,” he returns, brow arched. Hawthorn just stares at him with those gold-flint eyes.

“I can’t promise anything until we know more about the situation,” he says finally. “We don’t know the full brunt of the attack yet.”

“True,” she agrees. “Perhaps a partnership, instead of a contract. An exchange of information as we both stumble upon it.”

He thinks on it for a moment. No doubt home will be worried about the broken sky, and if the other Hissrad at the Conclave is dead, Hissrad is the only one with boots on the ground to report back. It would be efficient to be able to continue his original mission as well, and having a close friendship with the White Stags would get him there.

“That sounds fine,” he replies, twisting his face into a smile. “I would hate to lose your companionship completely.”

“I’m sure,” she says, as smooth as river stone.

He raises a brow even as her eyes slowly pan down his front. When her eyes meet his again, she simply raises a hand to tuck a curl of dark hair behind an ear.

“To...close companionship, then,” she offers with a sardonic twist, offering her hand.

“I’ll toast to that,” he replies, clasping it, letting his hand linger.

—

The Chargers prepare to leave the next day, after gathering the supplies they need. Rocky’s leg is still not healed, but Stitches is confident it just needs a few more days of rest, so the rushed departure doesn’t bother Hissrad too much.

He watches the townsfolk clean up the mess of the town and how, now that they do not need to hide, the masked scouts and agents of the White Stag are everywhere. It is now easy to tell where Hawthorn sits, at a glance, by the amount of dark-clothed heads bent towards her.

He has seen respect of a subordinate before, but this goes a bit farther than that. Something of it disquiets him, more so than much else.

Just before they leave, he breaks off from the group and finds her standing before the broken door to the tavern.

“You know, it’s not often that someone is able to pull one over me,” he muses, stepping to her side.

“That’s not narcissistic at all,” she huffs out with a laugh. “Maybe I’m not trying to hide anything at all.”

“Aren’t you?” he asks, smiling.

She turns to him to peer at him suspiciously. His grin widens, even as he reaches down to take hold of her hand, eye dancing as he brings it up to his lips.

“You’re no longer my client, now,” he rumbles, close enough now to smell the warm spice of her pheromones.

Her eyes are wide, for just one moment, before something moves behind the flat flint he has become used to. Her hand twists in his loose grip to thread her fingers through his, pulling his hand back down.

He can just feel her teeth graze the tendon in his wrist as she brings their clasped hands close, as she stares up at him over the fan of their fingers.

“I suppose you’ll have to make sure not to die out there, if you want to take advantage of that,” she husks, biting down gently before pulling away. “Until we see each other again, The Iron Bull.”

He watches her walk away, wrist twinging lightly as he blinks a little in bemusement. He is not sure he has ever met a human whose first instinct when confronted with the full force of his charm is to bite down—especially not one he’s never brought into bed yet. Part of him feels a bit like he’s had his own tricks turned against him, and he’s not quite sure how he feels about that.

It is rare for him to find someone that reminds him so much of himself.

“Until then, Miriam Hawthorn.”

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We might actually get to something spicy by the end of the decade at this pace


	3. A Chance Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual join me on ( [ Discord ](https://discord.gg/cun3KPZ)) to chat about fics, fandoms, and general nerd things
> 
> (however, since this a nsfw fic in particular, I will warn that all nsfw content is locked behind an adult role so if you are reading this and not of age, pls dont tell me in the interest of both of ours' safety)

There is a woman in town. There are many women, in many towns, but this one—

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hissrad snorts, looking over the lounging Hawthorn with a wry eye. She’s sitting against one of the stone pillars in Val Royeaux’s market, looking nothing more than another traveling merchant.

“Good morning,” she returns, shading her eyes so that she can look up at him. “Made a bit of a ruckus earlier.”

Hissrad looks back towards where Cadash is arguing with the Seeker and shrugs.

“Honestly didn’t seem like our fault this time,” he points out. “The Templars were the ones slapping Chantry Mothers in the streets.”

Hawthorn nods, looking curious.

“I see you got in with the Inquisition,” she muses. “That was quicker than expected.”

Hissrad nods in turn. It was, honestly. He probably would have waited for orders from home before trying to approach the Inquisition, but now that he’s entered into this partnership with the White Stag, his original mission has expanded. No need to wait for orders when he’s just continuing his previous mission, with some bonus eyes on the Breach and Inquisition.

He can’t say that, of course.

“Got lucky, ran into the Herald while traveling on our way through Orlais. Agreed to take us on provisionally for now, to be confirmed after seeing us in action.”

Hawthorn hums in thought, eyes moving to take in the Herald’s other party members.

“Smart,” she says. “He gets to evaluate you over a longer length of time than he otherwise would be afforded, and you get free access to the Inquisition without any binding obligations. Well matched.”

“He’s the slippery kind,” Hissrad agrees with a grin. “Almost as slippery as a certain smuggler I know.”

Hawthorn just raises a brow at his flirting, looking amused.

“What are you doing so far from town?” he asks, before she can start cutting down his advances to size. “Any trouble?”

“Not exactly,” she replies, leaning back a little more. “We’ve rebuilt what needs rebuilding, and have taken in what refugees are left over from the surrounding areas. Our territory is expanding, but it’s stretching us thin. I’m here to see about another group in the area that might be willing to collaborate with us.”

His attention sharpens.

“Another smuggling ring?”

“Hah. Not anything that organised. The Red Jennies are more of a movement than a group—a way for the downtrodden to feel powerful, even a little. They do do some smuggling, it’s true, but no. I’m more interested in their contacts in the capital, to see if we might be able to resettle some of the refugees somewhere safe.”

Hissrad tucks that away and nods. It makes sense from what he knows of the White Stag—and from what he knows of the current landscape for smugglers. Most groups won't want to collaborate too closely if their business overlaps too much, since neither side will want to risk their rivals getting an upper hand.

He’s had a few bits of correspondence with Hawthorn these past few weeks, but little actual information can be shared through letters, especially since they haven’t a common code to use between them. He’s shared some minor information on hot spot areas that might interest the White Stag, and in return he received reports on the movement of certain groups and nobles that might interest a mercenary group. The more valuable information has been what’s left unsaid—as he is slowly gathering more and more information on the White Stag’s movements and deals, and on Hawthorn herself.

There’s a scuff of dirt as Cadash and the others wander closer, having finished whatever debate had been ongoing.

“Who’s this?” Cadash asks. “Friend of yours, Bull?”

“Miriam Hawthorn,” Hissrad introduces, as the woman herself stands to give her hand.

“I hired the Chargers for a small issue just before the Breach hit,” Hawthorn explains, voice and face perfectly amiable, a stark contrast to her demeanor when Hissrad first met her. Hissrad is probably the only one who notices how she keeps them all to her front, even as she politely exchanges names with the rest of the group.

“It’s our fortune that we’ve run into each other now, then,” Cadash points out. “Since we’re thinking of hiring the Chargers ourselves.”

“Oh they’re good for the price,” Hawthorn replies, nodding. “Some of the best that I’ve seen.”

“Only good?” Hissrad snorts, crossing his arms.

Hawthorn gives him a dry look, something like a smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

“I said what I said.”

Cadash snorts and pats Hissrad on the knee.

“She’s got you there, big guy. We’ll, if you’re not too busy, I for one would be glad to buy you a drink and hear about whatever adventure you hired the Chargers for. I’m sure Bull will want to catch up anyways.”

It’s a blatant ploy for information, but Cadash always gets away with that sort of thing somehow. Even Hawthorn, whose caution Hissrad has first hand experience with, doesn’t seem unswayed. Perhaps because she figures she can find out something in return, or perhaps because ‘The Iron Bull’ will be there too. He remembers the heat of her hand on his vaguely, as if remembered through a thick glass plane.

“Sure,” she answers, eyes glinting slightly in the shade of Val Royeaux’s stone arches. “I have some free time.”

She accepts the arm Cadash offers her, dainty manners belying the grit and dirt he knows lies under her skin, and politely chatters with him on the way to the nearest cafe. She asks after the Inquisition, how they find the city, if they’ve tried one of the local delicacies yet. She does not, Hissrad notes, ask what business they have in Orlais.

Cassandra isn’t as polite.

“What is it that you do, Serah Hawthorn?”

“Just Hawthorn is fine, if you will,” Hawthorn starts, glancing over. “I work as the accounts manager for a small town of farmers—calculating taxes, balancing budgets, and such.”

It sounds extremely dull when said as such, and Hissrad isn’t surprised when the Seeker’s attention drifts, the new person in their midst slotted neatly into ‘civilian’ and ‘peasant’. Cassandra isn’t as high and mighty as some nobles, but she does have her own biases, no doubt learnt at the knee of her royal family.

On the other side of Cadash, Solas looks just as blank, although he didn’t seem that interested in the first place. Hissrad hasn’t seen much that does, unless it’s an old ruin or book. He wonders, for a moment, what face the apostate would make in face with the White Stag’s underground headquarters.

Varric on the other hand—

“Ah, a businesswoman,” he says, nodding as if that makes perfect sense. “It must be a successful town to have a need of your services.”

“Not particularly. Just one with a rather incompetent fief lord, as the Chargers had cause to see.”

Hawthorn easily transitions to a heavily edited recitation of the events, scrubbed clean of the references to less-than-legal dealings. How nice of her, to give Hissrad a heads up on what story she wants to go with.

By the time the story is concluded, they’ve found a table at one of the cafes and drinks are ordered. Hissrad notes with some amusement that Hawthorn orders tea and cakes, despite the only thing he’s ever seen her drink being ale and water. Sat as he is next to her, he can barely make out the slight downturn to her lips at the selection when it comes, although he doubts anyone else would be able to see it.

Not a fan of upper Orlesian cuisine, huh.

“Does your work bring you to Val Royeaux often?” Cadash asks politely as they chat, and Hissrad glances up to see the dwarf’s sharp eye hasn’t dulled any from the pleasantries. It’s hard to get a full read on Cadash, Hissrad has found. They’ve only been traveling together for a few weeks at this point, but although perfectly personable and empathetic, the dwarf keeps his cards close to his chest.

There are rumours, but less than Hissrad would think, considering what he’s learnt so far. Either Cadash knows someone with a lot of social sway, or there’s something more to him than just some Carta thug caught in the crossfire of the Conclave.

“Oh, about yearly,” Hawthorn replies, in a similar tone of voice. They’re actually quite similar in ways, Hissrad muses, leaning back and watching the chatter. Although Hawthorn hides her guile under a veneer of calm competency and cold personality, and Cadash his under a genteel good humour.

“The town usually sends me with a caravan to buy some luxuries we otherwise wouldn’t be able to get, but with the current unrest it’s hard to find any passage safe enough. It was deemed safer to send a smaller group, and bring back as little as possible. Some books, spices, things like that,” she continues, stirring her tea and taking a sip.

“There is a bookseller in Val Royeaux?” Solas asks, speaking for the first time. Hawthorn’s eyes cut towards him, but she answers as evenly as before.

“There are a few, but most of them cater to a particular clientele. If you’re looking for more academic texts, the library is you best bet, but it is highly regulated and you would need a chit of passage from either the Chantry or University.”

“Hah, that’s unlikely to happen,” Varric snorts. “Especially not now.”

“Maybe we can get Josephine to enquire,” Cadash replies, with a twist of the mouth that speaks volumes to how likely he thinks that would succeed. Even previous to the events in the square, Hissrad got the feeling only the Seeker had any hope for Chantry support.

Hissrad personally doesn’t understand the Chantry’s heavy-handedness towards the Inquisition—oh, of course, the fledgling heretical order is a threat to their power and dominion, but until the Chantry itself recovers its own power, flailing about ineffectually will just undermine them even more. It would have been better to treat the Inquisition as a distant branch, and then curb them later.

“It would be good to check,” Cassandra says, voice reluctant. “The Library holds much of the Chantry’s knowledge of the Fade and its ilk. Getting a chit would have been difficult even before the Breach, but it is imperative that we know as much as we can if we wish to close it.”

“Oh my, Seeker, I never would have thought you would advocate for more learning on the Fade, especially if this is, what, forbidden knowledge?” Varric prods, looking amused.

“It is not _forbidden_ —”

“Interesting friends of yours,” Hawthorn muses towards Hissrad, shifting slightly to cross her legs, one thigh pressing up against Hissrad’s own with the move.

“Hah, that’s one word for it. Cadash has already promised me dragon hunting if the contract works out,” he says with a laugh, winking obnoxiously when the dwarf turns his attention towards them.

“I said I might take you when we investigate reports of the Dragon in the Hinterlands,” Cadash returns. “There’s no guarantee that will mean actually fighting it if it exists.”

Hissrad waves that off—he’s gonna make sure that the contract works out and that he’s on that mission, and he’s sure once he’s there, a fight will end up breaking out. It’s not as if dragons are known for their calm and passivity.

“You do enjoy struggling against a good challenge,” Hawthorn muses. “Even when it’s inadvisable.”

“Yeah—hey,” he snorts, turning a betrayed look her way even as Cadash snorts and starts laughing. “Inadvisable? What, do you think the Iron Bull can’t handle a dragon?”

Hawthorn drags her eyes across his body, lingering.

“Hmm. I’m sure you think you can handle a lot.”

Hissrad feels himself blink—a flash of something hot under his skin, even as he quirks a brow and leans in close instinctually.

“Oh? Would you like to see what I can handle?”

“Okay,” Cadash snorts, waving a hand. “I think that’s our cue. You two have fun—although Bull, we’ll be leaving in the morning, and I’m not going to be waiting for you, so don’t have too much fun.”

“Sure Boss,” Hissrad replies, and waves the others off as they say their goodbyes, Varric and Cassandra still bickering with a longsuffering Solas between them.

He waits until they’re a good couple metres away before turning to face Hawthorn fully.

“So—”

“I see they’re already used to you,” Hawthorn says, interrupting, staring up at him with an arched brow over her—now probably horribly tepid—tea. “A little flirting, a little booze, and you’re neatly slotted into things.”

“Hey, if it works it works,” Hissrad snorts. “It’s easier to lie by not lying—I love sex and booze, so it’s no skin off my back.”

Her eyes flick, a small twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying her amusement.

“So I see.”

“You do it too,” he points out. “You weren’t even trying to hide your deals with the White Stag.”

She puts her cup down and crosses her fingers together, propping her head on the lattice they make and looking at him steadily from its perch. Like this she is bowed before him, the top of her head in line with his chest.

It should be a demure, passive pose. He’s seen it done before by giggling barmaids, nervous servants, repressed nobles.

It takes on a much less innocent light when she does it.

“Oh course I didn’t. You’ve made a name for yourself in certain circles, The Iron Bull. And I don’t mean just in the mercenary halls and taverns. If I tried to hide anything, you would have just been more invested in finding my secrets out.”

He snorts.

“Dangling answers just out of reach didn’t do much in keeping my attention off of you,” he points out. “Seems to me I found out more than I would have just snooping around.”

Hissrad has a healthy ego—he would have found something out, no doubt, but it wouldn’t be even a fraction of what he knows now. Her subordinates were too well hidden and entrenched. He wouldn’t have assumed that the whole town was involved with the White Stag if she hadn’t brought them down underground, and probably would have been able to write her off as another link in the chain if she hadn’t revealed what she had.

“Oh?” She cocks her head, the foot of her still-crossed leg nudging against his leg. “Are you sure about that?”

He raises a brow and leans in close. He’s not quite sure what she’s playing at, but—

“And what exactly did you end up telling your superiors back home?” she continues, the amiable merchant bleeding from her skin back into the hard flint eyes and knife slash mouth he is used to. “I understand that they are busy, with the sky falling down and all, but you would think that they would have been very interested still to know the inner workings of the White Stag.”

He pulls back.

Her lips twist a little at whatever his expression is showing before he drags it under control. Although it had never explicitly come up, he’s not surprised exactly that she knows about his true occupation. He’s been pretty upfront with it in the Inquisition, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she has spies in it’s ranks, although he hasn’t found any yet.

“They are,” he agrees, letting his shoulders settle even as the heat of her legs bleeds through where they are pressed together. “But like you said, they have more important things to deal with right now than a smuggler’s group halfway across the map.”

She toasts him with the teacup as if it is a skein of ale.

“And you otherwise wouldn’t have known that unless I had made it known.”

She lets that settle between them, before nudging the empty cup further away and standing. A few dropped coins on the table more than covers her share of the meal, and it takes only a moment for him to decide to join her when she pauses expectantly at the end of the table.

“A stroll around the gardens, perhaps?” she asks, and he narrows his eye her way. She’s not the type to ask for or want company, even his.

“Sure,” he says, instead of any of his many questions, graciously offering his arm in the Orlesian style, to which she accepts with a dry look of amusement.

He notes, as they leave, that despite her distaste for the Orlesian cakes ordered, none are left on the plate.

—

“So, the Inquisition is in a particularly precarious situation,” Hawthorn muses as they weave between hedges and flower beds. “The Chantry won’t lend its support, and the monarchy—both Fereldan and Orlais—have other matters to attend to.”

“Has to be some pretty big matters, if it’s more important than the sky falling,” Hissrad notes.

“Oh the usual. Instability, approaching civil war, greed, and power.”

They pass a giggling courtier who blushes once Hissrad catches her eye before ducking behind a fan and a coytish whirl of skirts. It’s always interesting to see the reaction Hissrad has on the more sheltered Southerners—in some areas of Orlais he doesn’t get a blink of an eye, and in others…

“They’re still the best situated to fix things,” Hissrad points out instead. “If they can gather enough support they might actually do it.”

“Oh, no doubt. It will be a difficult undertaking, however. There is nothing the continent loves more than divided and isolationist attitudes. Any group powerful enough to lend aid will be more worried about its own stability than the long-term gain that would come with joining up.”

She stops to inspect a rose bush, the buds of which are only just starting to open.

“Are the White Stags thinking of joining?” He wonders if that’s why she’s brought him out here. It would be a smart move, to get Hissrad to act as a go-between for the two groups while not risking anything on her part personally.

“No,” she says instead. “It would be folly to tie ourselves too closely to the Inquisition. It might be the best option now, but once the Breach is sealed, such alliances would be difficult to break fully. And I am not fully confident in the current handling of their organisation.”

He raises a brow.

“How so?”

He’s noticed some things himself, but he rather chalked it up to cultural differences between Fereldan and the Qun. Mismanagement would be an unavoidable fact.

“Their power structure,” she says. “Who is in charge? The Herald? He was a prisoner and despite his current authority, enjoys only limited freedom and power. If tides were to turn against him, he would have no way of keeping the Inquisition together.”

“His advisors, then,” Hissrad offers, although he knows where she is going with this.

“His extremely divided advisors, you mean? I’ve heard about their arguments from Swainsmound, and without the Herald to tie them together I fear they would spend more time arguing than managing. And none of them are fit to lead on their own.”

“Hmm. Well, it doesn’t need to work for long. Just as long as it takes to close the Breach.”

Her worries are a lot of the same worries he knows home has on the Inquisition. If their only hope of closing the hole in the sky is in the hands of a powder keg waiting to blow, it won’t just be the Inquisition suffering.

“And afterwards? The Inquisition may have started as a temporary stopgate measure, but no group or person likes losing power when they’ve had it,” she says, shaking her head. “And even if the upper echelon of the Inquisition did step down, there’s the pawns and the workers to think of.”

They continue, even as he runs her words through with a fine tooth comb.

“Without the upper echelon and support of the Inquisition, what will they do? Most of them are farmers or soldiers. Servants and cooks.”

“Exactly.” She gestures out towards the garden. “The people in Val Royeaux will go back to their comfortable houses, eat their lavish meals, remark over the dinner table about the horrible events of the past year. The dredges in the Inquisition? They will go home to their burnt out houses and fallow fields and think to themselves, ‘I had the power to change things, before’.”

“And it will create a power vacuum,” he concludes. “The leaders gone, but the followers still chomping at the bit.”

“Unless the Inquisition can make actual steps to address the issues that plague the masses, I’m afraid we’ll be looking at another civil war once they fall apart,” she agrees. “Maybe not right away, but soon.”

“The drought before the storm,” he muses, remembering her words from months ago. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Why is she telling him all this, he means.

“Do? Nothing,” she turns slightly so she can give him a dry look. “It was just idle conversation.”

He pauses. Hawthorn doesn’t even miss a step, continuing on until she steps lightly besides a gardener tending to some flowers, their red hat pulled low over a sunburned face. Their hands are caked in dirt and their lips are chapped, but there’s a particularly well-made pair of boots on their feet. It’s not hard to guess who this is supposed to be.

A quiet conversation ensues, the contents of which Hissrad logs quietly into his memory even as he plays through her words, attempting to assign meaning to them. He knows Hawthorn leads a band of smugglers and thieves—but like the Inquisition, they also take in refugees and lend support to certain groups that otherwise wouldn’t have any. They’re thought of as freedom fighters, in certain circles, passing along weapons and gear to groups attempting to free slaves in Tevinter and the locals in Seheron.

And yet, Hissrad cannot think of any reason why the White Stag would want to pass on a warning to the Inquisition through him. They might come across as charitable to some, but he knows very well how self-serving Hawthorn is in actuality. He has the feeling that if she is giving something out for free, it’s for a reason that will benefit the White Stag in the long run.

After a few moments of conversation, Hawthorn returns.

“Shall we?” she says, taking Hissrad’s arm once more.

He leads her out of the garden, the heat of her hand on his arm and the chill of her words sliding down his spine, plans and contingencies rattling about in his skull.

She leads him to the inn she’s staying at, doing it in such a way that makes it look like she’s content following him on his arm, as if they have the sort of relationship where she would tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and let him follow her home.

“Would you like to come on up?” she says, dancing her fingers lightly across the sensitive skin of his forearm, voice as bland as oat and eyes as hard as steel, despite her coy body language.

What a trap, he thinks with some amount of amusement. She already knows he’s wanted her in his bed for as long as they’ve truly known each other, and whatever game they’re playing together is only made that much more dangerous by how genuine that desire is.

He is here to spy on her, to undermine her organisation if it is called for, to slit her throat if home decides it’s needed. He is used to using his body in whatever way it is called for, whether pleasure or violence.

Tonight, at least, he is content that it is pleasure.

—

The room is barebones, another waystation for travelers and merchants, a bed and a table and not much else.

Hawthorn scarce waits for the door to close before she is undressing, leaving layers of fabric pooling on the floor as she pours from a pitcher by the table into a rusted sink. She doesn’t seem to mind Hissrad’s eyes as she goes about cleaning the sweat off her skin, ignoring him rather completely as he stands by the door.

He takes the space to catalogue her skin as it’s exposed. The rough skin of her hands sweeping the edges of her curls off her neck, the dipping shirt revealing a sharp spine dotted with small marks, the kind one would receive from a life of struggle. Her back tapers lightly, her body hard but not slim, each teasing flash of skin a surprise, but it is the scar he finds wrapped around her hip that catches his eye.

It is large, almost bisecting her completely, and must have been healed with magic to have healed at all.

He finds himself stepping forward, fingers skimming along the seam, a question and exploration wrapped in one.

She leans back into him, looking up with the still wet rag in hand, and doesn’t answer the unasked question.

Instead, she reaches up to pull him down into a kiss, a chaste, dry press of lips that has him pulling her tighter across his front anyways. He leans further down to mouth at her neck as she pulls away, causing her to hum in approval and tilt for more access.

After a moment she tugs away, half-turning to give him a look and the rag.

“If you’re going to be back there, you might as well be useful,” she says, with a nod to the water basin.

Hissrad hides a grin and takes the offered cloth, waiting until she’s turned back and gathering up her hair to obligingly sweep it across her shoulders. He starts light, a tease meant to wake her skin more than actually clean her off, before he dips it back into the water and scrubs harder.

Across her back, down her spine, a slow exploration that has her sighing and him slowly hardening in his pants. Once he gets to the swell of her ass, he pauses, waiting for her acquiescence before continuing. It’s not often Hissrad has the ability to explore his partner’s bodies like this.

There’s a reason the Chargers call it ‘riding the bull’. Most of his partners are looking for something more exciting than just a little bathing. Even when he does have the chance to slow things down, he’s usually holding the reins in such a way that he’s concentrating on other things.

“This would be easier on the bed,” he points out, eyeing her legs. She’s not the smallest human he’s ever been with, but even then, he’s a good couple feet taller.

“I spent the last three days on the road, I’m not getting the sheets dirty so soon,” she replies, stretching her neck out. “But if your knee is bothering you too much to kneel, you can take the chair.”

He glances up—he hadn’t realised she’d noticed the brace, but he probably should have. They had spent a long while walking today, but the slow ache in the joint is a background pain he’d mostly tuned out.

“You seem pretty confident in how this is going to go,” he says with a grin, skimming one hand up her back again, watching gooseflesh rise in its wake.

“Do I have reason not to be? You pride yourself on your flexibility when it comes to partners,” she says, turning around to grab at his hand, bringing it up to her mouth to bite at his wrist—the same one she had previous, all those days ago. “And I think more than control, you like being useful.”

“Am I going to need a watch word?” he says, somewhat strangled. It’s not often he finds someone else with the same proclivities as he does, at least not outside the Qun.

She hums in thought, eyeing him with those gold-flint eyes.

“Let’s finish washing up, and then we’ll see.”

He finds himself sitting at the lone chair, running the damp cloth up the leg she has propped on his knee, water soaking through the fabric of his pant leg, drips falling onto the floor and pooling at their feet. Like this, it’s more than just an act of service—The pose requires Hawthorn to balance precariously against him, trusting in his hold against her hip to keep her from falling.

It also brings his face closer to her more intimate parts, but the completely un-self-conscious way she holds herself makes it almost secondary to the feeling of skin under his hands and the sound of her light humming.

“You know, my people back home have a bet on how long it would take for us to fall into bed,” she says, after a moment.

Hissrad glances up, taking a moment to appreciate the curve of her chest as he does, the light flush across her collarbone and the stiffness of her nipples blatant evidence of her own desire.

“The Charges do as well,” he replies, grinning, tugging her closer so that he can mouth at her stomach. A hand settles on his one horn, fingers lightly rubbing at the keratin, the other hand cupping at his jaw.

“Who’s winning?” she asks, scratching at his stubble with the nail of her thumb, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Rocky, if you believe it,” he snorts, nuzzling it to her skin. “Dalish was close—she figured it would take another month.”

Hawthorn hums in interest, before shifting her hand to tilt his head back, eyes warm for the first time that he’s known her. She leans down, catching his mouth with less-than-chaste kiss this time, teeth biting at his lips even as her hands stay steady and gentle on his jaw.

When she pulls back, it is with a wry expression on her face.

“I would hate to disappoint him,” she starts, and her tone of voice has him sighing even as he pulls away.

“But you’re going to disappoint him?” he asks, letting his hand skim along her leg one last time.

“Mm. We should talk about things before we go any further, and I’m still exhausted from travel. I wouldn’t be able to give you or that conversation the attention it deserves.”

He sighs, leaning back in the chair. It’s the responsible thing to do, especially if things do move into the kind of play he thinks it would—still, he admits to some disappointment.

“That’s going to be an awkward walk back,” he chuckles, adjusting himself in his pants as she pulls fully away and starts gathering up her clothes again, this time to fold and pack into a travel bag by the bed.

“Stay,” she says, not even turning to him. “The bed is big enough and we’re both smart enough not to try and shank each other in our sleep.”

He blinks, before licking at the back of his teeth in thought. He got the sense that she wasn’t the sort of woman for that sort of intimacy—she seemed to disdain people attempting to get close, even for more innocent reasons.

Still, it is an opening he would regret not taking.

He stands to follow her to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so close, and yet still so far. This is now officially 15k of seduction


End file.
